


varicolored

by vampyrekat



Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-05-29 08:49:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15069545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampyrekat/pseuds/vampyrekat
Summary: The tip of the cigarette burns orange when Anastasia pulls it away from her lips. She has never seen the warmth of it before.It has never been warm enough not to wear gloves before.“Your eyes,” Gleb says suddenly, in horror, “they’re blue.”The world is black and white until you touch your soulmate, and then you see every color of the rainbow.





	varicolored

“You’re not going to share?” the princess asks jokingly, and Gleb - the sarcastic army brat through and through - laughs and does not blow smoke into her face. She can tell he wants to, but he’s been raised to be polite, even to prisoners.

“It’s a terrible habit, your grace.” His voice twists her title into an insult, just like always, and Anastasia rolls her eyes and holds out a hand. He takes another drag and lets the smoke slip past his lips before passes the cigarette to her, their fingers brushing familiarly. It’s cheap and hand-rolled and he must be stealing them from his father, but it is warm and comforting. All these months of huddling on either side of a rusted gate, and this is the first day it has been warm enough not to wear gloves. She and the soldier’s boy have a comraderie born of being the youngest ones - besides her brother - and they’ve become quite good at ignoring the inevitable. Anastasia can feel the heat of the cigarette against her fingertips when she inhales, and it’s comforting in the night air.

The tip of the cigarette burns orange when Anastasia pulls it away from her lips. She has never seen the warmth of it before.

It has never been warm enough not to wear gloves before.

“Your eyes,” Gleb says suddenly, in horror, “they’re _blue_.”

Anastasia looks up at him, unable to hide her expression. The world is different, and it feels like the first time she has ever seen the Vaganov boy - perhaps it is, because she never noticed the warm color of his brown eyes, the slight pink that the cold has drawn to his cheeks. She _couldn’t_ have noticed, because she hadn’t met her soulmate.

She reaches a hand through the gate, and he recoils instantly. The cigarette drops from her numb fingers and extinguishes itself in the snow, and for a moment, without the ruddy glow, she can almost pretend there are no colors and none of this happened. Almost, but Anastasia has never been good at lying to herself.

“Gleb,” she tries, and he shakes his head.

“ _Romanov_ ,” he spits, and then he turns and runs. Anastasia is still a prisoner and cannot follow, so she stands with her hand through the cold metal and swallows against the tears that threaten to rise up. Her soulmate is on the other side, and she doubts he will come to his senses and come back to talk about it. Why bother? She is not so young or stupid that she can’t guess what they plan to do to her, here. It’s one thing to have a half-life friendship with a prisoner, and it is another thing entirely to find out they are your other half.

She doesn’t mention it to her sisters, and she tries to ignore the wash of color. There isn’t much to see, in their prison-home, and then she is led to the basement and it does not matter anymore.

Gleb Vaganov does not forget color when the young princess is shot, and that is a dual-edged sword. Every flash of blue reminds him, every lit cigarette or rosy cheek framed with golden hair, because he is hopeful. When he pulls a young woman from the snow he thinks it is his own hope reflected in her eyes for a moment. But the curve of her cheek is familiar, even if her smile is less self-assured, and he stammers out an invitation to tea before he can think better of it.

The young woman does not know him -- of course she doesn’t. Anastasia is dead, despite the rumors, and yet- and _yet!_ \- the rumors persist. He’s not shocked when the young woman he was so taken with on the Nevsky Prospekt is brought before him as an impostor. Disappointed, perhaps, but Gleb Vaganov is predictable in his tastes and this woman certainly does look like his lost soulmate. It’s with a certain amount of personal bitterness in his words that he tells her Anastasia is dead, and it tastes like poison when she nods and acquiesces and does not argue.

He hadn’t dared to hope, cannot dare to hope, but he is disappointed anyway.

Anastasia had never let him have the last word, but this woman is not Anastasia, even if the resemblance is uncanny. There are many women in Russia, though, and he shakes her hand and pushes his animosity down, can’t help but lean in slightly to try and find a difference to put his mind at ease.

He cannot.

Her eyes are blue, like ice, and he feels cold as he jolts back when they fix on him. She frowns for a moment, her pretty features twisting, and Gleb wonders if she _does_ remember, if there is something left, and feels something terribly like hope press against the ice in his chest. Then she smiles nervously and asks if she can go, and he wonders why he is disappointed that the counter-revolutionary icon remains dead.

He tells her to come to him if she needs help, offers her his name, and when she echoes ‘ _Gleb_ ’ he feels something break inside him. The accent is quite good, and the resemblance - if she is lying about her non-involvement, then the con artists have a very good chance of succeeding in Paris.

He is disappointed and yet not shocked - again - when she goes to Paris. He is sent after them, and is lucky that no one knows he let her go in the first place.

Most people get the certainty of their soulmate, couched in greens and golds and soft orange sunsets and harsh blue skies. Gleb can see the crimson of Anya’s dress perfectly well when she declares herself the grand duchess, and he still cannot pull the trigger. He knows she cannot be the princess, and he falls to his knees anyway.

Gleb Vaganov has always been weak.

“Red is not your color, comrade,” he whispers sharply, catching her wrist when he strokes his hair. She doesn’t seem to respond, content to have her gloved hand held captive or else too shocked to pull away, and then she falls to her knees and puts a hand under his chin.

“I didn’t know you could see it,” she says quietly, her eyes all the more blue for the gold and red around them.

“My soulmate is dead,” Gleb informs her, and he can’t stop the flow of words when he adds, “along with the old Russia. The Grand Duchess died.”

She is in a grave and yet - Anya tilts her head and she looks so very like the dead woman that Gleb cannot breathe. She is not at fault for her resemblance, but he wishes he could hate her for it.

“I’ve seen color since I woke up,” she tells him, shattering whatever thoughts he had been having. “For as long as I can remember - and before that. I don’t know where it started, but I know rifle fire is white and I know the uniforms were green and I know -” She breaks off for a moment, because Gleb is not breathing and he cannot hope, after so long. “- cigarettes,” she guesses, and he breaks.

It does not matter, after all, if she is Anastasia; the dream is the truth in so many ways. If she can fool Anastasia’s soulmate, then perhaps it is right that she assume the mantle. A good enough fake is indistinguishable from the real thing, after all. But _if_ she is Anastasia - if she could possibly be -

She cannot be. It would be treason to hope.

She stands and so does he, holding out a hand. He means it when he wishes her long life, both the woman in front of him and the ghost that seems to flicker between them. She seems overwhelmed, and her hand clutches at his when he pulls away. Gleb pulls away and runs, and ignores the feeling of the cold iron gate in his memories.

Anya’s vision fades to black and white a few weeks later. She cannot explain to anyone - even her grandmother - why she chokes back tears or what it feels like to lose the colors she's always had, but it is not so bad as it could have been.

Some part of her has grown used to tragic endings.

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, follow my tumblr for more updates and writing snippets at [vampyrekatwrites](http://vampyrekatwrites.tumblr.com/). If you want to see my more general fandom side, my Anastasia blog is at [nanasalt](http://nanasalt.tumblr.com/). Feel free to message me! It's what keeps me writing.


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